Gratuitous Dread Presence

Stopping for a light lunch

Butterfly Garden, Balboa Park, San Diego, California.

Albequerque eastbound

I was on the way back from vacation and had spent the last of my money the night before on a motel room and breakfast. After leaving my change as a tip I went onto the highway headed east.

A truck pulled over. I have hitchhiked many miles through all parts of the country but had only had a semi tractor trailer pick me up once before. I knew of their vast distances traveled and I also knew that having access to a trucker's CB radio could also mean more rides.

But with this trucker it was not the case. He didn't use his CB. He was an older man, in his late forties or fifties. A bit scrawny looking with white hair. He was friendly and casual as we started off. I quickly found out he was going to Oklahoma City, which was a full day's ride across some of the most desolate highway in the country. I sat back to enjoy my luck.

My ride, however, had other plans. After an hour or so of polite conversation, he turned the topic to sex. At first it was pretty simple—he asked me about girlfriends and sexual experiences. Then he asked about any experience with boys. With each passing mile he got more and more perverted.

He had a point. He finally explained what he wanted me to do. It didn't sound that bad, actually—and the fact that he was offering money made it seem a bit more interesting—it was as if he knew that I had none. Part of me began to wonder if I would be willing to do such a thing for what the money would give me.

I contemplated his offer for a bit while I thought over the logistics. I knew I was going to be put into an environment that would be difficult to control and that he would press me for more when the moment came. I decided that I didn't want to do something like that, so I politely declined.

Unfortunately my ride was very persistent. In normal circumstances I would finally tell him to let me off but there were two factors to consider: He was going to Oklahoma City, a long drive, and on the prevoious week I spent a miserable day on the very same stretch of highway unable to get a ride. I had no desire to spend time in some small high plains exit again.

So I fenced with him all morning and most of the afternoon. I heard stories of what he did to other hitchhikers. He offered me a job as a tarp handler and promised me a lot of good loving on the top of some cold mountain passes. Finally, shortly after crossing into Oklahoma, he said he had to take a piss and pulled over. I wondered if he was going to ditch me, but I had to go too so I jumped out and peed. He then took that moment to relieve his condition. I politely watched as it was the least I could do for a thousand mile ride.

When he climbed back into the cab he didn't talk sex anymore, but then seemed to lapse into some CW McCall character, telling me of trucking stories about being overweight and driving through snow. He let me off near a trucking terminal on the wrong side of Oklahoma City, where I paid for my principles by sleeping in a treeline between two fields. It was too windy to cook and a cold front moved in an hour or so later to add to my misery.

Men who wear hats

After being left to my own devices for the past two years I finally went out and got myself a job. I scraped the edges of Craigslist and located a part time banquet serving position (for evenings and weekends it said). The little man that was to become my boss explained that before I would be hired I had to go through a background check and drug test. For a banquet waiter job. Go figure.

Apparently they did not have high standards and so I was invited to an orientation session that mainly focused on the correct placement of silverware and general waiting etiquette. It helped that I had done this work years ago, and so had retained some knowledge of certain issues like the difference between a salad fork and a dessert fork—but they really didn't mention one of the more important aspects about the guests: they all wear hats.

Well not all the guests—just the male ones. Some of them wear black stetsons, wide brimmed and somber while looking somewhat western and sinister. A few would sport great round disks that would be covered in dark brown or black fur. Most, though, just wear a small patch cloth or leather on the top of their head, carefully pinned so it won't move.

They do so, I'm told, in deference to their deity. If they always keep their head covered it shows proper respect to their great social alter ego floating in the sky. It's not just the hats, too—they also show their devoutness by carefully considering what they eat. It's not just a simple matter to serve these guests—what each dish has touched is as important as the food itself.

Being around such people who are so devout gives me yet another vision or window into my own spirituality. I can now more clearly see a separation of the father and the messiah, much in the same way that others might see or view the separation of church and state. It also makes me wonder what the difference would be between a prophet and messiah.

It's eerie and strangely pleasing to service people in their earnest effort at being pious. The atheist in me looks at their efforts as a silly complication to life—amusing and as misguided as the mormons. The devout in me looks upon their self imposed piety with awe at their ability to see themselves as an extension of their god.

Autocorrect

It's not like you can fix everything
so it's best to leave it
to something that can do it while you're writing
so fast that it counts the letters
and lets you know when you've erred
and then
just maybe
it heals itself.

It's not like you can take to wing
soaring above the vast whiteness
of snow or paper or ash
spewing out pollution like the newspaper ink
that stains the fingers of the intellectual
carving signs that can be read from space
as if
there was someone to read them.

A conciseness you meant to bring
to the table; a projection of invulnerability
because it doesn't matter how wrong you are
the problems will fix themselves
not in the direction you might have chosen
or with the plaster you carefully mixed
but an almost repair that leaves a ridged scar
a place to rest your finger
a memoir of the ability
to heal thyself.

90 Percent

Jacob was a eighty percenter. He wore a blue ribbon that designated his social consciousness level number in bold with letters. 87 percent, it proclaimed. It rested upon his natural fiber coat—made from organic cotton and not animal parts. He remembered the day he purchased it—and watched his rating jump to 81, and rewarding him with a blue ribbon. Jacob wasn't planning on staying at 87 percent. He had just purchased an antique, a precious stone, which was nestled in a velvet pouch in his pocket. He was reassured because the sins committed by it's production had been atoned by priests who regarded hot beverages as impious.

Since his coat was cotton it wouldn't hold up well in the rain. He purchased oil gently harvested from minks to rub on it, giving it a musky odor that gave him a distinctive scent. But that was okay, natural smells were perfectly acceptable. Sometimes the rich and famous would practice changing how they smelled by what they ate. A popular singer had recently claimed to smell like popcorn, a feat she managed by eating only shellfish. Jacob earned more positive points for the mink oil when he ordered it in small batches delivered once per week, as it meant more delivery people were employed. At first it began to pile up but then he decided to eat it. He was sure the government would eventually add a flavoring agent to it rendering it inedible.

He looked through the window at the various party foods, each displayed with a price inflated by sin taxes. Many of the more openly decadent ones had a different number—the weight that each would bear against one's social conscious level. Jacob knew that he was going to have to pay tonight—in money or anti points, probably both, but it was a big night and he was prepared to spend. He entered the store.

Inside was a vast array of exotic food and liquor. Unlike other stores, this one was run by the state, who carefully inspected and taxed each product before offering them for sale. One cooler contained cheeses made from animal's milk, high in fat. Their cholesterol gave them a high anti rating. Next to it was a cooler filled with fermented beverages, each one having a low anti rating. With alcohol, though, the anti rating goes up exponentially based on the volume bought, making larger purchases prohibitive. Being convicted of driving while drunk was an automatic 90 percent loss.

The aisles were stocked with many decadent items including various dried fishes and refined grains. One row was dedicated to drinks made from corn, while another was for snack foods made with starches and oil. Most people these days enjoyed their sodas sweetened with aspartame but the occasional old person would lament the passing of something called 'high fructose corn syrup.' Jacob strolled by the rows of shiny plastic bottles to the rows of baked goods.

Here were found creations made by processed wheat, a substance that was so versatile it once was used for building material. One could purchase bags of refined flower for use at home or take advantage of the premade cakes and cookies The smell of freshly baked bread drew Jacob in as he watched a shopgirl place the freshly baked loaves upon the rack. He looked with envy at her bold red ribbon and number 91.

Jacob wondered if she had earned her status by serving the country through the military or religion. She looked too young to have been already discharged from the military, and he didn't see any overt signs of her being a member of one of the service based religions which sent missionaries to convince people to eat only raw food in the less sophisticated countries around the world.

He didn't know that she had earned her prime status by donating bone marrow for cultivation. She opted for a painful harvesting procedures rather then give up a kidney. After all there was a reason why you had two. Her husband had also recently earned his prime status by donating blood—he got extra points because he had a genetic trait that made his blood resistant to malaria. They spent their evenings locked in passion hoping to achieve that formal status of family which enabled them great tax discounts and points allowances. Her life was not without tragedy for her younger brother was currently unscorable due to using racial epithets in an effort to be a socially edgy performance artist.

He selected a loaf of fresh bread and a cheese spread flavored with lobster, an animal product considered acceptable due to it's body vs. brain ratio. That didn't matter—there were still the occasional oddball activist that would protest crustacean consumption by claiming that science could use radiation treatments and nerve grafting to giving them bigger brains, and therefore a pathway to sentience. He took his selections to the front of the store to check out.

There a girl with a green ribbon took his card. Her ribbon didn't have a number because anyone under eighty was considered substandard. It was the eighty percenters who could date, and when reaching the upper numbers, marry. But you had to have a red ribbon to reproduce.

“We have a special today.” She said as she swiped the card that assaulted his credit rating. “Fresh caviar. Have you ever had it?” She asked.

“I did once, at a party. It was kind of salty.” He remembered that party, a spread of delicacies provided by his employer as a reward for a company victory. Companies held permits that allowed them to serve decadent foods under strict guidelines. “The anti points on it are horrible, though.”

“That's just it. They found a way to harvest them without killing the fish. They use anesthesia.”

“I don't like the way that anesthetized meat tastes. Most chicken tastes heavily of Sodium Pentothal. I hate that taste. I prefer my chicken hypnotized—when I have the money, of course.”

“Even meat without cholesterol still has fat.” She eyed his purchases. “Twin loaves. Must be some party. Sure you don't want any of the caviar?” So Jacob bought some, secure that the high price would be repaid by Emily's gratitude when he brought them to her party. He wouldn't tell anyone that the fish had been anesthetized and see if they could tell the difference.

Jacob thought about Emily as he walked to her condo. Her rating was 89, and she also had the privilege of marriage. Her left hand bore a ring of soft metal indicating her promise to abstain from sex and therefore permitted to retain her reproductive organs. Jacob and Emily had been dating for almost a year and he was ready to marry her, but it had taken a long time to raise the money to adorn her ring with a socially acceptable stone of great value.

He met Mary at the steps of Emily's building. Mary also bore a blue ribbon, but her number was only eighty four, and she was not able to be wedded. At least her status allowed her to date, and she was with her current boyfriend Jake. “Oooh, twin loaves.” Mary said. “I'm gonna carb up tonight!” Everyone laughed at her mimicking of a joke making the rounds in media outlets.

Emily loved the cheese spread and fresh bread, which still felt warm from the oven. He then took her to a quiet corner of the kitchen and presented her with the box containing the caviar. It looked suspiciously like a gift box for a precious stone but she recognized the fish right away. “Oh Jacob. You shouldn't have. Can you afford it?”

“It's not a big deal.” He lied. “I got a bonus last week.”

“But the anti-points. This has to be at least a hundred points. Surely your number will go down. I thought you wanted to have children.” Tears began to well up in her eyes.

“It's okay. That's not a problem.” He reassured her.

“It's not black market, isn't it? I don't want to take a chance at being poisoned.” It was common for the government to release tainted contraband to test the compliance of the population. “I thought I could trust you.”

So Jacob had to explain to her about the eggs were gently harvested and how the additional labor reduced the anti points even further. “They even leave some in to develop.” He concluded.

The caviar was a great hit at the party and everyone was eying Jacob's ribbon, as if the number would go down while they ate the salted eggs. Jacob regaled in their amazement and no one ever guessed that the eggs had been produced under anesthesia.

Later, while drinking a beer on another guest's points, Jake talked to Jacob about the latest medical breakthrough. “I think I'm going to try it.” Jake said. “It sounds like it should work. It'll be years before I can make it to 85.” His number was 81, and destined to stay there for quite some time due to an unfortunate arrangement at a impromptu pigroast in college. “I can't wait that long.”

“But it seems so extreme.” Jacob said.

“But they'll keep them hyperfreezed.” Jake said. “And they've been able to reattach them at over 99 percent. I can take pills to make up for the hormones. And there would be zero chance for pregnancy.”

”It's legal?” Jacob asked.

“One hundred percent.” Said Jake.

“But what if they can't put them back—if you're that fraction of a percent?”

“Then they can put in an alternate pair.” Jake said.

After the guests left, Jacob and Emily greedily ate the remaining potato chips left and washed it down with leftover champagne. The gleaming 89 on her ribbon competed with her robust breasts. “I have some news.” Emily said. “Next week I hit the ten thousand hour mark.” Emily had been working diligently to raise her social conscious level by listening to compassionate radio, a broadcast of wholesome stories for wholesome lifestyles. Combined with her work organizing protests against pesticides it would raise her to over 90 percent.

“Hm.” Jacob said. “I think I know what to do about that.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought fourth the other box that had been nestled in his jacket.

She saw the fish on the box. “Oh Jacob, this isn't more caviar?” But it wasn't. Inside was a dusky precious stone, carefully cut by ancestors that no one could rightfully claim. She kissed him then and they wished to make love right then but had to wait until Jacob had donated enough blood. So they held hands and watched the sunrise instead.

Stargazer

There had to be an answer in the stars, David thought. After all, someone had to know. It was, after all, like the future was some kind of tangible thing. There was no thing called free will—it was to be determined by a force that was greater then the sum of one puny life.

So he went to the library in search of enlightenment. The books on divinity were set in the back rows, under a flourescent light that flickered in a visual death song, casting random shadows that brought the dogma of each philosophy into a stark light. Only one appealed to him—it was the messages from the stars.

So he checked out the books on astrology and brought them home where he could read them with a steady light. There were books that described the history of the zodiac, and explained how it was so important when one planet aligned with another. There were books on how religions were based on the movements of constellations through the skies, and how the sky was considered a divine message of instruction.

According to the charts he studied, he was born into the house of Libra. Its symbol was the scales, which seemed right for David, because he was constantly trying to achieve balance. He felt that he was on a quest for justice, and the descriptions of Libras just seemed to feel right: Jimmy Carter, Mahatma Gandhi and Kim Kardashian.

David started reading his horoscope in the paper daily. At first he would read it in the morning and use it as a guide for the day ahead. It seemed to work but also seemed to be a little vague. He made plans to get a Libra tattoo on his chest.

He still felt a little unsure, so one day deliberately didn't read his horoscope until the evening to see if the advice it offered would have been useful in the context of hindsight. He was shocked—it seemed so much clearer when he compared the events of the day to his horoscope's description. David felt that he had finally found truth. He went back to the library and checked out more books. Using their guides and his birth certificate, he calculated his astrological pedigree to the ninth house.

This gave David confidence. He began to behave more boldly in his life, more willing to take charge. He had, after all, the stars to back him up. It gave him a warm feeling to know that he had discovered truth. It seemed that he had achieved some kind of balance.

It was a Thursday when this all changed. The morning started bright and clear, and he felt energized as he boarded his train to work. Tucked underneath his arm was the daily newspaper. He settled back in the cushions and read his horoscope for the day. “Great changes are coming.” it said. “A new direction will be offered to you.”

David was exited about this. Things were going well for him at work and he suspected that his boss would be offering a promotion. Or maybe the receptionist next door would finally agree to go to lunch with him. He leaped onto the platform when his train arrived and charged into his workday.

But the ordinariness of it began to dull his senses. His boss was out and wouldn't return for the next week, and the receptionist was still cold to his invitation. Even the cafeteria still served the rancid bean with bacon soup offered each Thursday. Discouraged by the falsehood in the paper, he made his way home and prepared a simple dinner. The phone didn't ring, his neighbors ignored him and he felt lonely and empty, so he turned in early to shorten his disappointing day.

When he turned out the light he noticed that there was a kind of white glow in his bedroom. Sitting up, he stared across the darkness and saw a man standing there, an old man. He had a beard and curly hair that looked somewhat familiar. David blinked and stared hard, thinking it was some kind of hallucination, but the figure remained. The figure waved. The figure smiled.

“David,” it said in a strangely nasal tone, “I've come here to tell you something important.”

“Yeah, right.” David said. “How did you get in here?”

“I've actually been here all the time. You just never noticed.”

“So? What do you want?”

“Do you know who I am?” The bearded figure asked “I'm you, thirty three years into the future.”

“Um, no. Not buying it.” David said.

“They had bean with bacon soup in the cafeteria today. It was rancid, as usual. Nancy, the receptionist told you she couldn't go to lunch with you today because she had a temporary filling.”

“How'd you know that?”

“Your horoscope foretold of big things today, but nothing happened. Well, nothing--except now. By the way, they're going to have lobster bisque at the cafeteria tomorrow. Don't get it—it's going to send 17 people to the hospital.”

“I'll keep that in mind. So, if you're from the future, you must be here to help me out. You gonna give me some stock tips?”

“Ah, much better then that. What I will tell you is going to come as quite a shock. But it's vitally important that you heed my words.”

“Okay what is it?”

“You're not a Libra. You're really a Virgo.”

“What?”

“You're really a Virgo.”

David paused as he let this virgin knowledge wash over him. “I'm a Virgo? How that can be?”

“You see, in the future they discover that since the Earth has wobbled in its rotation it caused the astrology houses to shift. People assumed the sun was in the House of Libra on your birthday, but it wasn't. It hadn't been since 1143, when it shifted to Virgo. Scientists discover this fact in 2011, thirty three years from today. That's why I came here to tell you, so you know.”

“So that's why nothing happened today.”

“Maybe. You'd have to read your true horoscope to know.”

David blinked and the figure disappeared. Getting out of bed, he walked into the kitchen and retrieved the newspaper from the trash can. Turning to the horoscope section, he read Virgo's prediction for that day. It said something about discovering the folly of truth.

He spent his train ride staring out the window instead of reading the newspaper. He walked slowly to work from the station and simply went through the motions of the morning without thought. He didn't pay attention to the time and when he looked at the clock he realized he needed to get to the cafeteria before it closed.

When he got off the elevator he encountered a strong smell of vomit. A man said “Sorry, sir, the cafeteria's closed.” He turned to go outside and slipped on a puddle of vomit. He laid on the floor for a moment with his eyes closed.

“Are you alright?” A woman's voice asked him. David opened his eyes and saw a young woman with brown hair and eyes looking at him. “Are you okay?” She asked again and smiled.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks.” He stood up, conscious of someone else's vomit on his sleeve. “My name's David. What's yours?”

“Stacie. I'm a Virgo. What's your sign?”

“That's what you think," he thought. David and Stacie went out to lunch together. The rest of the day flew by and soon he found himself in bed. When he turned out the light the glow was there. The Future David was back, with a beard and hair a little longer.

“You're back. You were right about the soup.”

“I know. “

“So what happens next?”

“I can't tell you all of the future. You have to find that for yourself.”

“So why are you back?”

“Well, it seems that there was a mistake in the calculations. Scientists in 2017 discovered that there is a massive black hole just outside of our solar system that's causing light to bend. It turns out that the original astrological signs were correct.”

“So I'm not a Virgo? I'm still a Libra?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“Can't you tell me anything else?”

“Well, maybe one more thing.”

“What?” David asked, desperation in his voice.

“The Cubs are going to lose.” David blinked and Future David was gone.

He got out of bed and went outside to watch the stars. He stayed up all night watching the constellations shift in and out of each house. He marveled at the Belt of Orion and he smiled at the twins of Gemini.

But nights fade, and then there was only one star in the sky. It was big, bright and cast warmth. David watched it rise in the morning and decided that from now on the Sun was going to be the only star he'd follow.

In times like these

The recent shooting in Arizona has been used as an example of how political rhetoric can incite violence. Those that tend to sway to the left are pointing to this incident as an example of how the language of the right helped this assassin stoke and clarify his hatred. Those in defense of the right side argue that this is the work of a single sick individual, and that this shouldn't be an excuse to quell their right of free expression. The irony is that they're both right.

I've known quite a few crazy people. Not the bizarre ones that put worms up their noses at parties—real, actual diagnosed schizophrenics, manic depressives and whatnot, living in institutions and taking medications. I've observed mentally ill people struggling to achieve a sense of social normalcy though their handicap and noticed one of the ways they do this is by adopting a role model. Because of it's widespread prevalence and general appeal an instrument of mass media is often used for this purpose.

In other words, this shooter in Arizona needed someone to show him the proper social cues to be accepted in our society. It's quite possible that one of the sources for his inspiration was the rhetoric used by the right, and he regarded this assassination as a way of gaining their acceptance.

And I have to admit that, sometime during the Clinton administration, the rhetoric seemed to heat up. The right seemed to coalesce then, and their positions seemed to sway more to the extreme. It was as if they were using a Hegelian dialectic as their model and saw themselves as the antithesis. It's probably effective, but I question the wisdom of using extremist positions to modify public policy.

Part of the irony, though, lies on the left side of the spectrum. The left often uses words in different ways—for example, where the right uses the current 'birther' argument, the left used the 'illegal election' against Bush. When the right assaults Barama for his healthcare reform, the left assaulted Bush 43 as a war criminal. One might not seem as harsh as another, but it's easy to forget that it's really the victim that can describe harassment, not the accused. But that leads to a new question: Who are the victims here?

I suppose it's all of us. The simple fact is that I, just like most Americans, am really a pretty moderate kind of guy. I understand many of these extreme positions, but generally feel that a moderate path--one that incorporates the best elements of both sides—is really the right course. You wouldn't know it by reading a messageboard or watching television, but most of the people I meet actually feel the same way. Because of that I view all the shouting and shoving on the right and left as a desperate effort to get my attention.

My response to that now is going to be to tell people to shut up and get busy. We have a lot of shit to do around here, and it's time to get started. Let's not get fixated on the flavor the answers … let's just solve the problem.

Brenda Starr, Reporter

When I was growing up one of the things e hings I could depend upon was the newspaper. It would come every day, either bought at the store or thrown from the street, and it would have everything I needed to know about the world around me. It assailed me on two fronts: first the words within the paper. I remember teaching myself how to read one from cover to cover, and learning how to dissect local papers. I also remember yearning to have a paper route, as it seemed it was the way to make money in the neighborhood.

So I started getting up early to deliver the news—six days a week for the Arlington Heights Herald (now the Daily Herald). I went on to take classes in journalism in high school before deciding that I wanted to learn something different. But I would still read whatever paper I could get my hands on—including the comics.

I cut my teeth on old school serials like Dondi and Dick Tracey. I remember following Hipshot in Rick O'Shay, a western serial. Gasoline Alley was another one I read regularly, as was strips like Lolly and Beetle Bailey. I remember listening to my parents discussing the edgy new strip Broom-Hilda. I became fascinated with Gil Thorp after reading about how it was an excellent training tool for high school coaches. I was glad to see the Phantom get married.

One of those strips was Brenda Starr, Reporter. When I first started reading her she was chasing around Basil who was always one step ahead of her, searching for a cure for a drug made from black orchids. I kept reading as she caught up with him and actually married him, only to find that he would still slip away for his flowers. I remember Brenda quitting the Flash to trade on board of exchange, only to end up taking delivery of a commodity she bought but forgot to sell.

So I read the upcoming end of Brenda's story like the death of an old friend. I found out about her demise only recently and have been reading for the past few weeks as the strip winds down. Of course she's back at the newspaper because that was one staple of Brenda—she always went back to the paper.  I remember once when she came back and the internet had taken over and the newsroom was full of slacker hipsters. Didn't realize at the time that I would end up marrying one of those slackers that was sleeping under her desk in the background.

But it looks like Brenda is leaving again. She's already declared that she's had enough of the news. That's okay, Brenda, we know what that's like in my household. There's a lot of things out there besides journalism—you know that. A new career is great idea, Brenda—we're with you.

But the problem isn't that. It's pretty clear to me that Brenda is going to step away from us shortly and disappear into the crowd on Michigan Avenue, leaving us standing and feeling empty as we are no longer allowed to follow her story. She's going to sift away into the ether of humanity and become just like every one of us, struggling to pay rent or a car payment, leading a life that can't be described as anything other then ordinary while searching for adventure in the windows of a comic page.

Apples by the side of the road

Barely legal, the seedling sat close to the edge of the road. It was a casual accident—the product of a fruit core chucked from a passing car in hopes of feeding deer. It wasn't the deer that ate the discarded flesh—it was the ants, who left the poison laden seeds remain until one germinated.

It strove to grow tall with the aid of kind summers. Fate smiled and bathed the tree with warm sunlight and gentle rain but the tree could break free of the bounds given by it's father, a grafted monster forced into lines for mechanical benefit. It was hard to imagine cruelty in such an environment filled with luscious red fruit.

So the stems bent as if feeling the pain from it's ancestors. The fruit was green and lumpy and had a sweetness that was only tasted by wildlife. The ants that feasted on the core left generations to raid crooked branches in search of freshly rotted fruit. Its ragged leaves would roll with the punches of commerce as they roared by.

In the afternoon I discover it's still there—I had seen it's promise when I was a teen. I caressed the fruit, caressing the lumps that grew from the tangled branches. Bringing it to my lips I could taste the salt of the earth upon it left over from the roadway. I lacked the courage to take a bite because I hadn't a chance to make it right.

A ghost

For many years I used to avoid being photographed—mainly because I thought I never looked good in photos. As I got older and had my son, I eschewed photos of him as well, decorating my office and personal spaces with things that he created as opposed to pictures of him.

That has changed over the past couple of years. My second child proved to be pretty photogenic, and coupled with a new DSLR, meant lots of pictures. (You don't believe me? Check them out here.) In addition I also learned a few tricks about being a subject of photography that eased my concerns.

But in the past couple of months, two separate group photos including myself have been shared by others. Both of them were put up on Facebook, and both represent pictures from a young and eager time. My wife marveled at how much I looked like my 18 year old. And I remember both pictures being taken, a year or so apart.

I remember being young and thinking I'd never grow up. Despite having the credentials of being an adult I felt I was going to always be a child—never strong or smart or capable enough to be a true grownup. It didn't matter that I could wear a tie or vote—I just always felt like I was about 15.

So my young self stares into the camera and the shutter clicked. I don't know who I was looking at or what I was thinking, but now I realize that it was me that I was staring at. I was looking through time to my future self. I just didn't know it then.

I can't name all the people in both pictures-my memory is too hazy. In the picture taken at Vershire I know of at least two people who are no longer with us. But they're not the only ones. I know that the skinny kid with shaggy blond hair I used to be isn't around anymore. That kid died when I had to do mundane things like rent apartments, buy health insurance and have children of my own.

Now I find myself staring at the past. I weep for the loss of my dreams, seeming unaware of what replaced them. And for the first time in my life I am in fear of a ghost.

Pictures viewable after the jump ...